


when it's killing me, what do I really need

by RainbowRandomness



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Arguing, Bad Days, Drinking to Cope, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, References to Depression, Self-Hatred, Snow, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Worry, pushing away those you love because you feel you don't deserve them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 10:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16116392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainbowRandomness/pseuds/RainbowRandomness
Summary: It was so much easier when nobody cared about him, when he was alone in his house and could drink until he was passed out on the kitchen floor with a spilt bottle of whiskey and a single loaded revolver scattered on the floor around him.





	when it's killing me, what do I really need

**Author's Note:**

> prompt and my original ramblings found [here](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com/post/178292168306/bedifferentstrange-this-is-aesthetic) and [here](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com/post/178425908301/me-again-back-to-bother-you-with-more-ramblings)
> 
> at this rate I'm gonna have about a million and one fics dedicated to [tsunderehank](https://tsunderehank.tumblr.com/) because I literally flood their inbox with fic ideas and they put up with my ramblings, which is v sweet of them. 
> 
> more fluff and a dash of angst from me, what's new. inspired by a gifset of Bryan in one of his short films standing out in the snow, and tsunderehank's tag of _"whats that? Connor enjoying the snow you say? in Hank's hoodie? I digress"_
> 
> hope ya'll enjoy
> 
> Title from _Snow (Hey Oh)_ by Red Hot Chili Peppers

It’s one of his bad day.

They’re few and far between nowadays, not as frequent as they once were, but still common enough that Hank keeps a bottle or two of scotch whiskey in the cupboard to sooth him and drown his sorrows when he’s feeling particularly low. When the voice in the back of his head whispers from the shadows and clutches him with inky black tendrils, dragging him down into the dark recess of his mind where his worst memories and thoughts live and torment him.

Today is one of those days, and when he and Connor arrive back from work late in the evening, it’s the first thing he reaches for. He barely takes the time to shuck his coat at the front door before he’s moving towards the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and turning the shower on at full blast.

It doesn’t help. Sometimes it does, the repetitive feeling of hot water beating down on his skin easing the tension between his shoulders and clearing his head, but not tonight. He realises with belated defeat that his usual alternatives aren’t going to sooth his aches tonight and he finishes up and steps out of the shower quickly, towel drying himself and moving as though on autopilot towards his bedroom to grab a change of clothes.

Connor is already sat on the sofa waiting for him when he finally emerges from the bedroom in a shirt and some sweatpants, a towel slung around his shoulders. Connor’s changed as well; a pair of light grey sweatpants hug his folded legs, and a black hoodie encases his upper half. His head is bent low, watching the movement of his fingers where they rest between his folder legs, playing absentmindedly with the sleeves of the hoodie. He hasn’t turned the TV on.

Hank pauses in the doorway of their bedroom briefly, watching Connor for a moment. He knows that Connor is aware of his mood, knows that Connor wants to help him through it without resorting to drowning himself in alcohol. Still, his fingers itch with the need to wrap themselves around a glass full of amber and he strides into the kitchen, already reaching for the top cupboard protruding from the wall. A glass and the bottle of nearly half drunk whiskey are already on the counter in front of him by the time Connor’s hand comes into view and rests against his wrist.

“Lieutenant—” he begins, voice soft even though his grip is firm. Hank pulls away from him, drags the whiskey bottle with him least Connor reaches out to take it from him.

“It’s been a rough day Connor. Just let me have this.”

His voice is rougher than he means it to be, the words sounding harsh even to his own ears. Connor seems to still at his tone but collects himself quickly, takes a tentative step forward and reaches out for Hank again. He slinks away from his touch, a spike of anxiety shooting up from his stomach.

“Lieut— Hank. Please,” Connor tries, hand hovering in midair and his brow creasing ever so slightly with concern.

He doesn’t want Connor’s help. He doesn’t want him to care. It was so much easier when nobody cared about him, when he was alone in his house and could drink until he was passed out on the kitchen floor with a spilt bottle of whiskey and a single loaded revolver scattered on the floor around him.

It was so much easier when he was alone and didn’t have to worry about hurting someone other than himself.

“Leave me alone, Connor,” the words are an almost desperate plea hidden behind a gruff tone, as though he really means the words at all, “leave me alone and let me just— let me just have a drink, alright?”

Connor’s lower lip wobbles ever so slightly and his fingers curl where they hang in the air. He takes another step forward and reaches for Hank’s arm, fingers just brushing the skin when Hank wretches himself away from the gentle touch, and all but shouts in his partners face.

“Fuck sake Connor, don’t you ever listen? I said to leave me alone! Why the fuck won’t you just do as you’re bloody told?”

Connor takes a step back, startled by Hank raising his voice at him. His brow furrows further, fury dancing in his eyes like flames in a hearth, but his own voice is steady, controlled, when he speaks.

“I want to help Hank. I know it’s been a difficult day, but drinking yourself into a coma isn’t going to be beneficial to you— it will only make you feel worse later, and it isn’t good for your overall health—”

“Oh fuck my overall health.”

He practically spits the words, clutching desperately to the whiskey bottle as though it’s a lifeline. There’s a part of his mind screaming at him, wondering why he’s digging his heels in over this, but the stubborn part of him doesn’t want to give up and digs in deeper, even as anxiety claws at his spine.

“Do you think I give a fuck about my ‘overall health’? Do you think I give a fuck how I’ll feel later? I know I’ll feel like shit later. I know I’ll drink myself into a fucking coma and wake up feeling like shit on the kitchen floor. I’ve done it a hundred times, Connor, I _know_ what happens. And I don’t care!”

He slams the bottle against the kitchen table and Connor flinches at the sound as it rings and echoes off the kitchen tiles. From the living room, Sumo whines from his bed and stands to slink away into the bedroom and out of sight, hiding from the fighting take place in the kitchen.

“I don’t give a fuck Connor, ya hear me?”

Connor recoils as though he’s been slapped. Hank’s staring straight into Connor’s widening eyes as he says it, leaning forward with his lips curled into a snarl. He picks the bottle back up from off the table and uncaps it, prepares to take a swig before he pauses and spits out, bitter, as though trying to remove a disgusting taste from his mouth.

“It’s time you stopped fucking caring too.”

The first swig from the bottle burns as it travels down his throat, though he thinks it’s more from the shame of what he’s said and done more than the alcohol itself. He doesn’t look at Connor, averts his gaze and turns away from him, leaves him standing frozen on the opposite side of the kitchen. He barely notices when Connor finally moves, striding purposefully towards the front door.

When Connor slams the door behind him, Hank could swear the knick-knacks littering his large bookshelf rattle where they sit, a picture frame wobbling slightly before resettling itself atop the dusty wood. He scowls at the shelves and then at the door, as though his eyes could pierce through the thick wood and straight into Connor’s retreating form.

He sighs heavily, the end of the sound morphing into a frustrated growl. He drops the bottle against the kitchen table and reaches up to run his hands through his hair, fingernails scraping across his scalp. His fingers curl around tufts of silver hair, clenching the strands in his grasp and tugging until the tension in his shoulders ease ever so slightly, turning the pain from emotional to physical and focusing it into the sensitive skin of his scalp.

 _It’s better this way_ , he tells himself.

He doesn’t believe the lie, not even for a moment.

-

It hasn’t been easy— _he_ hasn’t been easy, he knows he hasn’t. Despite his best efforts to do better, to _be_ better, there are still days where he slips up and finds himself in the same dark pit he was trapped in for so many years. Some nights it’s easier to push Connor away and grab a bottle from the cupboard, cradling a glass full of amber liquid like a lifeline. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t have someone who cares about him and his well being, because it’s not always something he can believe is true, and on bad days it’s easier to push the notion aside as though it’s not true.

But he knows it’s true. He knows Connor cares about him, cares so much that he manages it for the both of them on days that Hank can’t muster up the energy to care about himself, and isn’t that the dumbest, most wonderful thing of all? That despite his gruff personality, his rough way of dealing with his issues, the alcoholism, self loathing, and the dark days he sometimes feel may never end… Connor cares about him. Connor _loves_ him, despite it all, despite the fact that the dark voice in the back of Hank’s mind tells him that he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve Connor at all, and yet… Connor stays, every time.

Hank sighs again and drops his weight against the cushions of the couch, burying his face into his hands. His fingers find their way into his hair again and he massages his scalp idly, taking deep, steadying breaths to calm himself down. Sumo makes his way over from where he’d been hiding in the bedroom, and plants himself at Hank’s feet, pushing his cold, wet nose against Hank’s arm until the older man reaches down to ruffle the fur atop his head.

“How’d I get so lucky Sumo, hm?” he questions, voice soft in the quiet of the house. Sumo’s tongue lolls from his mouth and Hank can’t help but smile to himself, his hands reaching out to playfully rub at Sumo’s neck and behind his ears, the dog grinning at him all the while from the attention.

“I don’t deserve him,” Hank says after a while, a whispered admission that causes the voice in the back of his head to sneer in delight, “I don’t deserve him but he still sticks around. Still gives a shit about me, and isn’t that a goddamn miracle in itself?”

Sumo doesn’t reply, of course, simply lolls his tongue and blows his hot, heavy breath in Hank’s direction while his fur gets petted and his ears get rubbed between large, familiar hands.

A sigh escapes past Hank’s lips again and he gives Sumo one final pat before leaning back against the couch cushions. His eyes falling shut of their own accord when his head tilts back and hits the back of the sofa and he shifts until he’s comfortable, settling himself into the comfort of the couch. He listens to Sumo pad away into the kitchen and hears the sound of him eating his dinner from his dog bowl a moment later.

-

He doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up an hour or so later, a twinge of pain in his neck alerting him that he’d drifted off and crust threatening to keep his eyes glued shut. Sumo must have joined him on the sofa at some point after he’d fallen asleep, his body laid out languidly across the sofa and his head sitting heavily on Hank’s thigh. The muscles tingle beneath the weight from the lack of blood flow and Hank groans at the mere thought of the pins and needles he’ll feel when he moves to stand up.

Looking towards his side, he blindly reaches for his phone, hand fumbling across the side table until his fingers close around the cool surface of his mobile. He lifts it towards his face and squints against the light when his screen turns on, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes.

The screen reads 1:02AM and Hank groans, realising that he’d fallen asleep for almost two hours. He shakes his head at the ridiculousness of falling asleep on the sofa at his age and shoves at Sumo until the dog finally releases Hank’s thigh from beneath his head. Hank can’t help but notice the wet patch of dog drool against the thigh of his sweatpants and rolls his eyes skywards before standing up and stretching, his back popping in several places as he does so.

He moves towards the bedroom on autopilot, his eyes still half lidded and heavy with sleep. He rubs at them half heartedly and moves towards the bed, only to find himself freezing when he looks down at the covers and realises that Connor isn’t there.

It takes him a moment to fully comprehend the situation, and after a moment of his brain kicking into gear and finally waking up, Hank feels his heart begin to beat frantically beneath his ribcage as though it’s desperate to escape, and his eyes widen with the dawning realisation that Connor hasn’t come home.

“Fuck.”

He says it without realising it and he almost startles himself when he hears his own voice.

“Fuck,” he says again, already moving to find his jeans and a marginally clean shirt, scooping them up from off the floor and hastily putting them on, “fuck fuck fuck, _fuck_.”

Connor hasn't come home. The thought rattles in his mind, his own fear and doubts clawing away at his insides as he grabs his keys and his coat and makes his way outside to the car. The voice in his head tells him this is it, he's really done it this time, Connor isn't going to come back this time around. He tries to ignore it, pushing the intrusive thoughts aside as he locks the front door and stumbles over towards his haphazardly parked car.

Hank fumbles with the keys as he goes to unlock the drivers side door, a fine tremor making his hands shake, and he has to pause, lean forward and press his weight into the side of the car to take a deep, steadying breath. He closes his eyes and attempts to calm himself, tries to push away the fear and anxiety that's trying to drag him under. When he moves to unlock the car again his hands are steadier and he breathes a small sigh of relief.

It isn’t until he seats himself behind the wheel that it occurs to him that he has no idea where Connor could be. He stares at the steering wheel, fingers flexing uselessly against the worn material, and tries to _think_ , racking his brain for any place that Connor might visit.

Growling out a frustrated sound, he presses his forehead against the steering wheel, knuckles slowly turning white where he grips the wheel. He searches through his mind, conjuring up possible locations, wondering where he could have gone, and it frustrates him to no end that he doesn’t _know_.

Another sigh leaves him in the form of a defeated expelling of air through his nose. He leans back from the steering wheel and glances out the window, taking note of the inky blackness of the night sky and the gentle fall of snow from unseen clouds. It reminds him of another snowy night from not so long ago, from a time where they were still so unsure of each other, treading carefully even as they began to grow familiar.

On that snowy night, when Detroit’s city landscape was naught but a distant background noise heard faintly beneath the wind’s whistle and the lapping of water from the river below them, Hank had almost thrown it all away. The liquor hadn’t helped matters (it never does), fogging his mind to the point that he made the reckless decision to draw his gun and point it towards his partner, the barrel pointed between his soft brown eyes.

His hand had shook holding the gun. With nerves, fear, with the realisation that he didn’t want to shoot, with the alcohol coursing through his veins, with his mind screaming at him to lower the gun. His hand had shook, and he had tightened his grip before lowering it and looking away, shame gripping his throat until he took another swig of his drink and washed it down with every other emotion gripping at his shaking frame.

It dawns on Hank in that moment that he knows where he’ll find Connor. He thrusts the keys into the ignition and pulls out of his driveway, his heart beating a mile a minute beneath his ribcage even as he drives towards his destination.

He supposes he’s always been like this, since the day they first met, testing the boundaries of their relationship, seeing how far he can push before Connor doesn’t come back. Even on that night, Connor had stood there, gun pointed towards his head, and had held Hank’s gaze as his hand shook and his courage faltered. Oh, there had been a moment of fear, fleeting as it was, when Hank released the safety, when Hank had asked him if he was afraid to die, but still, he had stayed, had never looked away. Even back then, he had stayed, and ever since they’d met outside Chicken Feed after the snow had settled and the androids had won, Connor had stayed. He had come back to Hank, had _chose_ to return to Hank, and had _chose_ to stay by his side ever since.

Hank’s hands flex against the wheel again, frustration aimed at himself bubbling up his throat like bile. The fight they’d had was so _stupid;_ why were they so damn stubborn with each other, why did he feel the need to _push_ so damn much?

He clenches his jaw and keeps driving, his anxiety only beginning to calm when he pulls up by the playground and sees Connor’s hooded form sat where Hank once sat, shoulders hunched over against the cold. He breathes a sigh of relief, shoulders drooping with released tension he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and gets out of the car.

Worry knots itself in his gut as he slowly approaches; he knows Connor can hear his footsteps crunching in the snow, but he doesn’t turn to face Hank where he’s sat atop the bench. He keeps his eyes fixed forward, looking out towards the Ambassador Bridge, the lights of the cars crossing its roads appearing like twinkling fairylights against the backdrop of the night sky.

When Hank eventually comes to stand beside the bench, he sighs, breath clouding in the night air. The snow blanketing the ground makes the world around them appear quiet, the noise of the city drowned out to be replaced by the sound of the wind and the gentle lapping of the water below them. It makes it feel as though the moment is endless, as though they could stay here forever, just like this, and time wouldn’t move on without them, encapsulating them both like a photograph with an unknown story.

Except he knows the story to this photograph. Knows what happened to lead them to this moment, hopes he knows what will happen once this moment passes them by. He furrows his brow and clears his throat, feeling something tighten in his chest when he opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tucking his hands deeper into his worn coat pockets to protect them against the cold, curling them into fists to preserve heat. Connor’s fingers are laced together, hands hanging between his open thighs.

Hank knows he can’t feel the cold, not really, but standing beside him he can see the fine tremor running through him that’s making his fingers shake ever so slightly where they hang between his parted thighs. Connor had told him once, whispered into the darkness of their bedroom as they were buried beneath the covers for warmth, of the last time he had been left in the cold.

He watches him now, wonders if Connor is thinking about the time he felt the cold encasing him from the inside out, wonders if he can feel the chilling bite of the air around them nipping at his fingertips, his cheeks, the end of his nose. He still doesn’t turn to look at Hank, though his fingers twitch ever so slightly where they rest, and Hank sees the minute way Connor draws the sleeves of the hoodie he’s wearing (one of Hank’s older ones, he can’t help but realise with a small smile, a warmth blooming in his chest) further down over the palms of his hands.

The voice in Hank’s head, the one sneering at him from the shadows of his own mind, tries to tell him that it’s no use, that Connor has had enough of him. He shushes the voice, shoves it aside and takes a steadying breath.

“Please come home,” he says, trying to keep the waver of anxiety from his voice. He still fears that Connor will refuse him, that he’ll turn and tell Hank no, and leave him standing here in the snow, the way Hank had left him that one early morning so long ago.

He clenches his fists in his pockets and hopes that won’t be the case.

Finally, Connor stands and turns to face him, though he doesn’t look at him straight away. Instead he looks up towards the night sky, the falling snow. Hank can’t help but take in the sight of him; the way his curls protrude from beneath the hood of the jacket, the way the snow clings to the black fabric, and the way the streetlight illuminates his skin as though he’s a celestial being, something not from this world.

Hank feels his breathing stutter in his chest at the sight, and Connor must hear it, of course he does, because he finally looks at Hank and gives him a small smile that nearly knocks the breath out of Hank all over again.

“I’m sorry too,” Connor says, head tilting ever so slightly to the side in that way he does. Hank wants to reach out and cup his hands around Connor’s jaw, wants to rub the pads of his thumbs across his soft cheeks and draw him closer, draw him into the heat of Hank’s body and keep him there, nestled against his chest.

So he does, hands reaching out of their own accord, pulling Connor to him as though if he doesn’t touch him, doesn’t hold him, Connor will disappear altogether. He brings Connor forward, nestles him against his chest and wraps his arms around him, his face burying into the mass of curls atop Connor’s head.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice ever so slightly hoarse from emotions he’s trying not to let drown him, “it was a stupid fight. It was stupid because _I_ was stupid, because I— fuck, sometimes it’s hard, knowing— knowing someone gives a shit about me, I never thought that— fuck.”

He chuckles, somewhat wetly, hugging Connor close to him. He feels Connor’s own arms circle his waist, fingers reaching up to dig into the material of his coat, digging into his back.

“I never thought I’d have someone care about me anymore, ya know? I thought, I thought after everything that’s happened, when my life turned to shit and everyone I loved left me…”

He sniffles; when had he started to cry?

“I thought I’d drink myself into oblivion until I finally pulled the trigger for the last time. I thought that was it, that was gonna be my fucking life. Drinking and teetering on the edge of death, just waiting to be pushed.”

Connor’s holding onto him tightly now, face buried into Hank’s chest. He doesn’t say anything, just lets Hank talk, lets him work through what he’s feeling. His grip on Hank never falters, his body pressed along Hank’s front and his arms wound tight around his middle. His hands hold onto him firmly, as if to reassure him that he won’t let go, that he won’t leave. The thought makes Hank gasp, his breath stuttering out of him wetly.

“Fuck Connor… I didn’t mean anything I fucking said. I didn’t. I said it because— because I was scared, because pushing you away feels easier sometimes than letting you help. Than letting you give a fuck about me.”

Hank buries his face more thoroughly into Connor’s curls, trying to hide the fact there are tears running down his face. He feels ridiculous, crying in a playground at one in the morning, frost biting at his skin and his hair sticking to his wet cheeks. But Connor holds him through it all, doesn’t move to pull away or falter in his grip on Hank. He holds him through it, a reassuring weight against Hank as he shakily forces himself to breathe again.

He doesn’t know how long they stand like that, cradling each other in the snow. After a while though, when his breathing has steadied and his eyes are less wet, Connor pulls back ever so slightly from Hank’s hold, just enough so that he can look up into his eyes, and opens his mouth to speak.

“I know it’s difficult, sometimes,” he says, voice soft and quiet, his words murmured for only Hank to hear, “I know it feels easier to slip back into your old ways.”

There’s a slow smile spreading across Connor’s lips, and Hank wants to kiss him, has to resist the urge to do so as Connor continues to speak.

“But I’m here for you Hank. I’ll always be here for you, standing by your side. Whenever you need me, I’ll be here, and even on days like today where you want to push me away, I’ll be here. And I don’t plan on ever leaving you, Hank.”

Connor’s hand finds it’s way to Hank’s cheek, and he leans into the touch, body practically melting into the touch. Connor’s thumb idly strokes along his jaw, feeling the soft hairs of Hank’s beard move beneath his thumb. Hank watches him, eyes drooping ever so slightly as though they wish to close, but he keeps the open, wanting to absorb the way Connor looks now, bathed in the white light of the streetlamp, his curls covered in snow and his lips a beautiful shade of pink against his pale skin.

Connor smiles at him, as though he knows what Hank is thinking. His thumb brushes the corner of Hank’s mouth and he has to suppress a gasp at the contact.

“I love you, Hank,” he says, voice all but a whisper, “and as long as you want me, I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

Hank’s not sure who moves first, if it’s Connor who leans up to catch his lips, or if Hank leans down to meet him, or if they both move at the same time, meeting each other in the middle. What he does know is that Connor’s lips are soft against his own, slightly cold from being out in the snow for so long, but they’re the same beautiful lips that he adores kisses whenever he’s given the chance, and this time is no different. He relishes in the feeling of Connor against him, of their lips moving together as though they’re one, their tongues swiping gently at each other before moving deeper to explore each of their mouths.

When they finally pull away, they’re both slightly out of breath and it makes them smile. Connor gently swipes his thumb across Hank’s cheek, catching a stray tear that had escaped Hank’s notice, and pulls away from Hank’s arms to step back beside the bench. His smile never wavers, and neither does Hank’s, and when Connor reaches out for Hank’s hand, Hank gladly offers it, lacing their fingers together as though they were always meant to be that way.

Connor beams at him, and begins to pull them in the direction of the car. Hank follows him gladly, his smile widening when Connor leans into his side and squeezes his hand in his.

“Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> come follow me on [tumblr](http://rainbow-randomness.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I do not give permission to have any of my works put up on goodreads or any other such site.


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